


A Story About (The Asset) (Bucky Barnes) (James) A Cat

by LeafOnTheWind



Series: Fluffy Fluffs [1]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: And They Have Each Other, Bucky Barnes Does His Best, Bucky Barnes Feels, Bucky Barnes Has Cats, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Bucky Barnes Recovering, Bucky Barnes's Metal Arm, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Not Beta Read, Okay It's One Cat, POV Bucky Barnes, Past Violence, Recovery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-26
Updated: 2020-06-26
Packaged: 2021-03-04 01:35:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,192
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24935383
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LeafOnTheWind/pseuds/LeafOnTheWind
Summary: The man who was once the Winter Soldier knows how to survive, but that's it. Then he finds a cat.
Series: Fluffy Fluffs [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2071554
Comments: 4
Kudos: 27





	A Story About (The Asset) (Bucky Barnes) (James) A Cat

**Author's Note:**

  * For [PlaudiusPlants](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PlaudiusPlants/gifts).



> This was based on a request for a Bucky Barnes and a cat who chews on his arm. Hope you enjoy!

He takes a deep breath. He has failed in the past, but he cannot continue to do so if he wants to make something of himself. Failure is not an option. ~~Failure is punished, success is too but failure is so much worse.~~

He stalks forward, a stern grimace on his face, as the man he approaches looks on with trepidation and a hint of fear as he reaches out with a gleaming, silvery arm to grasp his goal: an apple.

 ~~The Asset~~ ~~James Buchanan Barnes~~ ~~Bucky~~ ~~who is he?~~ Yasha slowly closes his hand as gingerly as he is able and lifts, breathing out slowly. He knows the shopkeeper is confused and fearful, but so are most people. He can’t let it bother him. This time is already better than his first attempts, where what felt like the slightest touch ended up crushing the fruit beyond repair. ~~This arm does nothing but destroy and kill.~~ He takes a look at the apple in his hand and frowns. There are deep bruises. He heaves a sigh and moves on to the next one. The line of ruined apples stretches out to his left as he moves from apple to apple at the fruit stall. ~~All he knows is destruction, how can he build up who he is? He hates who he was, and doesn’t know who he was before that.~~

The proprietor loses his fear after the third apple is bruised so and switches swiftly to a glare. He gives up and purchases the damaged ones, plus a few extra, sighing quietly at the lightness of his bag and his wallet. He will have to steal or earn more soon. ~~~~

He makes his way home ~~not home, never home, he can’t get attached, what if they find him he CAN’T LET THEM FIND HIM~~ , walking slowly through the autumn air. His arm pulls at his shoulder, cold against his skin.

Yasha hears a pitiful sound and pauses. ~~This is a distraction focus on the mission. What is his mission? He has no mission, he chooses now, _he_ chooses now.~~ He is stopped by an alleyway, trash strewn across the floor carelessly, the dumpster wide open. He hears the sound again, almost angry, and steps in. There is very little he cannot defend himself against, but he is on his guard nonetheless.

Yasha steps around the dumpster and blinks. A cat.

The cat sees him and instantly pops to its feet, letting out a scream. It is a pitiful thing, its fur matted, its tail half gone, its ribs visible, its stomach bloated. The cat puffs up as much as it can, but it’s not very much; Yasha could hold it in two hands, perhaps one.

He takes another step forward, intent on ~~he’s not sure~~ helping this cat. It braces itself before flinching and pulling a forelimb back to its chest, hissing all the while.

Yasha reaches out with both hands, and the cat leaps, hissing, spitting, doing its absolute best to deal as much damage as possible before its inevitable defeat. It tears at the skin on his right arm and he pulls back, but it continues its attack on his left arm, which has grown sluggish from lack of maintenance.

He doesn’t feel anything in his left arm, and blinks. The cat is viciously mauling (not mauling, it can’t hurt the vibranium) his forearm. He blinks, and lifts his arm. The cat clings to it still, favoring its injured limb, and clearly desperate.

Yasha makes a decision. (He hates and loves decisions. He envies his past self who was so self-assured, for whom it was normal to decide. He hates that he barely remembers when his choices were taken from him, the draft, the fall, the chair.)

This cat is coming home with him. He will help it.

So he does. He uses his metal arm ~~death, always death~~ to distract the cat while his flesh hand, still sluggishly bleeding from the deep gouges that are ever-so-slowly healing (has his healing been slower lately?), grabs at the back of its neck. It goes limp in his arms.

He was right, it fit into one of his hands. It’s so small.

He takes it home.

\--

For a few days, Yasha goes about his life. But now, when he gets home, he hears spitting and tearing as the cat destroys the little furniture he has, sees a cabinet ajar and missing food, returns to a cat that still does not allow him closer than a few feet before leaping at him teeth-first.

But the bloating seems to be growing, and the injured limb is getting worse. The cat needs maintenence.

A week in, Yasha returns home to the cat hissing much more quietly than usual. He approaches and its tail twitches but does not attack him. He picks it up and it is warmer than usual. It appears the need for maintenance is now imminent.

He takes the cat to the medical clinic he is aware is near him, only a few blocks away. He has stolen bandages from them in the past to dress his own wounds. ~~Where did he get them?~~ ~~Who did he hurt?~~ Not that that has happened recently. Unfortunately, Yasha cannot do that for a cat. He does not know what is wrong, nor how to set a cat’s bones, nor what is causing the fever or the bloating.

The receptionist at the clinic directs him to a veterinarian nearby.

When he arrives, the cat is shivering, and Yasha is very concerned. It feels terrible, but so, so familiar. (Who has he cared for like this? Why does he remember deep breaths, a figure so familiar propped up against him, a gentle touch, another alleyway, another fight, and pain spikes through his head.) The technician takes one look at the pitiful, mewling thing and whisks it into their arms, asking for a name.

Another choice.

“Soldat.”

“Is this your cat?”

“…Yes.”

They nod, and take ~~the cat~~ Soldat to the back for examination. When they return, they are angry and sad in equal parts.

“How did this happen? It’s gotta be ten days old, at least. And you _really_ need to be feeding them more. No… no. That’s not the important bit.” He takes a moment. “Soldat is going to need surgery. She’s got an infection from her paw, too, so she’ll need to take antibacterial medicine for about three weeks after she goes home.” Yasha nods. He has never needed antibacterials, but he knows well he is not normal. (He hasn’t been normal since he was saving a scrawny punk from—what? What did he save him from?)

The man heaves a sigh. “One other thing, and I always hate to ask, but are you able to pay for this? Pet insurance? The surgery alone will be a couple thousand, I’d have to check for the exact cost.” His eyes are pinched; he’s clearly seen far too many people give up on their companions in this way.

“I’ll pay it.”

“I haven’t even told you how much it’ll—”

“I’ll pay it.”

He pays it.

\--

Yasha pays for the surgery and medicine in cash. The vet does not ask where he got it, though they can clearly tell it was ill-gotten. (It was from a drug ring along the docks. Nobody saw him.)

The vet had to amputate the injured and infected limb, and Yasha was given the medicine as well as some natal vitamins, a pamphlet on the care of cats, and a contact for a specialized diet for pregnant cats. It seemed Soldat had more surprises in store than he had expected.

The vet also gives Yasha their number, in case of emergency, and the number of a friend of theirs, who they claim sometimes needs manual help in their landscaping business. ~~Why do they give him this? What are they after?~~ (Not everyone has an ulterior motive.)

\--

There are a lot of emergencies, but after the visit to the vet, something seems to have changed in Soldat.

She still looks at him warily across the room, still rips and tears the furniture he has entirely given up on, still claws and bats at his arm. She still refuses to eat food meant for cats, even the fancy stuff he was told she needs to eat to get her weight back up.

He tries it in an attempt to get her to eat it. It tastes awful, almost as bad as the smoothies he was once given by his handlers.

He does not buy it again.

Instead, he calls up the vet. They are very surprised to hear from him again, but give him advice on what human foods he might be able to substitute, and how much. They are very ~~suspicious~~ congenial about it.

Yasha tries that first night to cook for the first time he can remember. (Did he ever cook before? He’s not sure.) It turns out terribly, and Yasha and Soldat eat together. Soldat still eyes him warily, but eats nonetheless. She takes some of it with her when she goes to hide.

Yasha gets better at cooking for them both.

Soldat slowly gains weight. So does Yasha.

\--

It is four weeks since Yasha picked up Soldat in that grimy alleyway across from the fruitseller. He calls the landscaper. They have room for one more set of hands.

He likes the creation of it. He likes the flowers.

\--

Soldat still hides from him at times, in the mornings before he leaves her food out, during the day when he is gone in search of food and money (the drug ring, that landscaping business, the flowers he sees walking through a park, the smell of honeysuckle), at night when he goes to pet her (with his left hand, always his left hand) (he understands why she runs, he would run too after the ~~death~~ ~~pain~~ ~~fear~~ ~~blood~~ ). He does not know where she goes, but she always comes back, however spiteful she may pretend to be.

She comes back.

\--

It is six weeks since Yasha picked up Soldat in that grimy alleyway across from the fruitseller. The man will no longer sell to Yasha, but that’s alright. That’s hardly a barrier to him grabbing an apple as he passes by.

It doesn’t bruise.

Yasha takes a bite with a crunch. If he wants to cry, that’s no business of anyone’s.

\--

He gets home, his hands (both hands!) covered in dirt. He is later than usual, as he had managed a stilted conversation with another of the workers, who looked almost comfortable by the end. He has worked with him before, three or four times (six times), and he knows he should move on soon. He does not want to. (He doesn’t _want_ to!) His face is soft as he calls out to Soldat and begins preparing dinner. She hadn’t eaten much yesterday, so he wants to make sure she eats enough today.

She does not come. She does not come even after her portion has gone cold, after night has fallen.

But she always comes.

\--

She is not back the next morning. Yasha does not work that day, instead combing the streets for Soldat. He calls the vet, and the landscaper, and the woman who inexplicably gave him her phone number when he was in the library looking for more information on cats.

None of them find her.

He returns home.

\--

Yasha returns home, feeling more helpless than he has in a long time.

Until he hears a familiar sound. He knows this sound. Some nights when he is on the edge of sleep and wakefulness Soldat will jump up to his bed, quiet as can be, and curl up atop his chest and _purr_.

The door shuts and it cuts off. Yasha barely breathes, fearful that he will drive her away again.

The door to the hall closet creaks open and Soldat comes out, sluggish but somehow annoyed. Yasha bends down to pet her, to pick her up in his one hand and cradle her to his chest, he was so, so worried. Soldat is having none of that, and attacks his arm as usual, except it isn’t as usual.

Rather than scratching and clawing and tearing his shirts, she only bites. She bites and _pulls_ , and Yasha follows, his breath shaking from relief and, when he sees the nest Soldat has built in his closet, with tears.

She has taken the sleeves she’s ripped off and the filling from the cat bed he’d foolishly bought and his pillowcase and the shreds of his poor couch and made a perfect, beautiful nest with three perfect, beautiful kittens inside, mewling helplessly.

He kneels on the ground next to them, lowering his head to look at them more closely. Satisfied, Soldat releases him and struts back to her kittens, laying next to them and blinking slowly at Yasha before yawning and resting her head fully for a nap. She’s had a busy day, after all.

He lays down, entranced. They’re so tiny and precious.

Soldat begins to purr, and Yasha begins to smile.


End file.
